


Protozoa

by theshopislocal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Crossdressing, Emotional Constipation, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Straight John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 23:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5686147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshopislocal/pseuds/theshopislocal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock cocks his head to the side. “Why are you uncomfortable?”</p><p><em>Christ</em>. John guffaws incredulously, then leans forward, voice pitched to a vicious whisper, “You’re dressed like a woman! Do you even realise how offensive this is?”</p><p>Sherlock raises a brow. “I’m consistently offensive to anyone and everyone, an aspect of my glittering personality that I’m sure you’d noticed before I donned these trousers. Why are you uncomfortable?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues to stare out the window, and the silence stretches. If John didn’t know Sherlock as well as he does, he’d think the detective hadn’t heard the question (or was deliberately ignoring him), but, as it stands, he knows very well that Sherlock quite enjoys testing the tensile strength of objects - namely awkward pauses and John’s patience.

_I’m still here because I’ve_

_Got nothing else to do_

_You’re an asshole, but I’m_

_Getting used to you_

_I like the fact that you_

_Talk incessantly_

_I’ve got a thing for assholes_

_Who tell good stories_

_\- ‘Used to You’, Ani diFranco_

 

15:37:21

Case solved. Sous-chef convinced sommelier to murder Bryant in exchange for sexual favours. - SH

 

15:37:27

Tedious. - SH

 

15:37:50

Can’t have been too bad if it took you two whole days to solve.

 

15:38:01

41 hours and 17 minutes precisely. Terribly uninspired. If Cummings had killed Bryant herself, it may have had potential. - SH

 

15:38:13

Is that so.

 

15:38:19

You forgot your interrogative punctuation. - SH

 

15:38:26

Did I.

 

15:38:39

Female serial killers are a rare breed. Quite fascinating, almost invariably difficult to deduce. Cummings' failure was in the delegation; were she cleverer, she’d have used sex as her murder weapon rather than as payment for some blundering buffoon to botch a simple execution. - SH

 

.

 

..

 

15:38:51

Did you just use a semicolon in a text?

 

15:38:56

How did you type that so fast?

 

15:39:04

And ‘sex as the murder weapon’?? If you were a woman, London would be the most dangerous place on earth.

 

15:39:09

And I invaded Afghanistan.

 

15:39:13

I will endeavour to arrange the following responses to your inquiries in order from least to most obvious. - SH

 

15:39:21

What?

 

15:39:30

I use a semicolon whenever a semicolon is required, obviously. I type at the speed which the dexterity of my fingers allows, more obviously. And most obviously: if I were a woman, you would have married me years ago, and London would be perfectly fine. - SH

 

.

 

..

 

…

 

.

 

..

 

…

 

15:40:12

tht makes no sense

 

.

 

..

 

...

 

 

15:40:28

Quite right. Most obviously: yes, you invaded Afghanistan. Then the rest in the above sequence. - SH

 

15:40:33

whst

 

15:40:40

No

 

.

 

..

 

...

 

 

15:40:55

It's ridiculous. I wouldn’t marry you just because you were a woman, Sherlock.

 

15:41:07

Of course, you wouldn’t marry me just because I were a woman. - SH

 

.

 

..

 

 

15:41:17

Right.

 

15:41:21

Good.

 

15:41:23

Fine. - SH

 

.

 

..

 

…

 

 

15:41:33

We’re out of milk. - SH

 

—

 

As often as minor (and occasionally semi-severe) injuries like this happen to Sherlock, John is no longer anywhere near as concerned ( _fussy_ , Sherlock would say) about tending the detective’s wounds. Certainly, he still stitches them up - as he’s doing now - and redresses them to make sure they don’t become horribly infected by the detective’s disgusting experiments du jour, but rather than miring himself in (entirely unappreciated) worry for Sherlock’s health and well-being, he is instead worried about the bloodstain slowly expanding on the sofa and whether or not Mrs. Hudson will take it out of the rent.

 

Or, rather, he _would_ be worrying about those things, if not for… _well_.

 

Crouched on the floor in front of the sofa as he bandages a gash on Sherlock’s thigh, John peers up. Sherlock’s face is blank but for the irritated (and irritat _ing_ ) arch of a brow as he presses a bag of frozen peas to the small bump forming at his hairline. 

 

“Why would you think I’d want to be with you?” John flinches at the sound of his own voice. He hadn’t intended to ask that - well, perhaps he _had_ , but not so bluntly and certainly not while he was on his knees tending to the injured and trouser-less detective.

 

Sherlock, for his part, looks more bemused than surprised by the question. “You _are_ with me,” he replies, tilting his head to the side. “I’d consider that a fair start.” The ‘obviously’ remains subtext, but only just.

 

John clenches his jaw and tightens the gauze around Sherlock’s leg, wincing unbidden at Sherlock’s pained grunt. “Not be _with_ you,” he says and looks up. “ _Be with_ you.”

 

Sherlock (predictably) rolls his eyes, and lowers the ice pack, glaring at John down his supercilious nose. He grumbles something that sounds vaguely like ‘useless inflection’, and he leans back, his squinted eyes roving over John’s crouched form. “You’re quite proximal at the moment,” he begins, tilting his head again. John thinks he looks like an iguana eying a particularly crunchy-looking spider. “Touching me, in fact, though I’ve assured you exactly seven times that I’m _fine_.” John opens his mouth to demur, but Sherlock (as per usual) continues unheeded. “So: close to me, touching me, fussing over me like a not-so-proverbial mother hen-” an imperious quirk of the brow, “-I’d say this is the maximum quantity of ‘being with me’.” Sherlock doesn’t make air quotes, but then the twat doesn’t need to.

 

John’s eyes close, and he feels his face scrunch up. “It isn’t, though.”

 

“No?” Sherlock asks, tone coloured with curiosity. “How do you figure?”

 

“It’s just-” John sighs, grabbing the tape from his med kit. “It’s just not, Sherlock,” he says and shakes his head. “You wouldn’t understand.” _Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas-_

 

Sherlock scoffs. “That’s statistically unlikely,” he grits out as John smoothes the tape over bruising skin, and John huffs out a laugh.

 

“Is that so.”

 

Sherlock frowns. “Of course, it’s _so_ , why would I say it if it weren’t s-”

 

_Christ_. “Rhetorical question, Sherlock,” John interjects and sits back on his haunches, throwing the tape and gauze haphazardly back into the kit.

 

“Ugh, _rhetoric_ ,” Sherlock groans, throwing himself dramatically against the back of the sofa. “All faked passion and over-stretched metaphor - the soul of wit for the witless. Think Anderson’s got a GCSE in it, though I doubt his learning ever went much higher than th-”

 

“Do you listen to yourself?” John says, pulling an incredulous face at the half-nude detective. “You are the most  _ridiculous_ man in all of-”

 

“Hyberbole is needlessly inaccurate,” Sherlock interrupts, projecting his voice over John’s. “I’m not the most ridiculous man in all of England - which is what you were going to say - I’m not even the most ridiculous man you’ve _met_.”

 

John’s mouth tightens into a mimicry of a smile at Sherlock’s combatively arched brow. “This room,” John finishes. “You’re the most ridiculous man in all of- this room.”

 

The side of Sherlock’s mouth tips up in a smile, and John feels his own become a bit more genuine. Of course, Sherlock can never leave a good thing be. “And yet,” he begins, and ignores John’s wearied sigh, “here you are. Touching me, fussing over me, arguing with me - which you should know to be pointless by now, not only because you are so consistently _wrong_ , but because, really, there’s no purpose pursuing a debate with the most ridiculous man in _all of this room_.” He stares intently at John, who gives him a bland glare, and then sniffs. “And you wonder wherever I could have gotten the idea that you’d want to _be with_ me?”

 

John puffs out a gust of air and squeezes his eyes shut. “ _Sherlock_ -”

 

“Perhaps I wouldn’t understand the finer details of whatever it is your silly _inflection_ is meant to indicate,” Sherlock says in a rush, leaning forward until the line of his body is taut with contention, “but it is undeniable - even coming from a ‘ridiculous man’ - that you _would_ want to be with me, inexorably evidenced by the fact that you. _are_. _with_. _me._ ” He bites out the last three words, and just as John opens his mouth to respond, Sherlock’s ire turns to bemusement. “Why does this bother you so much?” he asks, ignoring the click of John’s mouth closing. “You aren’t a homophobe, and even if you were, I’m not suggesting anything that would question your heterosexuality-”

 

John snorts out an aporetic laugh. “You said I’d  _marry_ you-”

 

“ _If_ I were a woman,” Sherlock counters with a broad gesture of a pea-laden hand, “which I’m sure even _you_ are able to deduce I am not.”

 

John lets the dig slide, but clenches his jaw. “That isn’t the point!”

 

“ _Is_ there a point?” Sherlock asks, pugnacity back in full force.

 

John stares at him stone-eyed for a moment, then swipes his tongue over his bottom lip and huffs. “It isn’t _true_ , Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and waves a bumptious hand. “Of course, it’s true-”

 

“It _isn’t_ ,” John cuts in, tone hard and unrelenting. Sherlock’s head pops up, eyes slightly wide, and he frowns. John looks down at the med kit, reaching to rearrange the contents for something to do with his hands. “I’m not-” he begins, and cuts himself off with a sigh. “I’m not a homophobe. Not remotely.” He licks his lip and hopes (fruitlessly) that Sherlock doesn’t recognise it as the gesture of discomfiture that it is. “Just because I’ve never been attracted to a man doesn’t mean I’ve ruled them out entirely,” he glances up just in time to see Sherlock’s brow rise, then looks back down at the kit. “If I… _somehow_ , found myself-” he searches for the words for a moment, wishing fervently he hadn’t said anything at all, “ _gone_ on a bloke, then… then, I’d go for it. Bloke bits and all,” he says, shrugging one shoulder in a way he hopes will come across as unconcerned. He glances up at Sherlock’s face - dubious in the extreme - and surmises his failure. “People are people,” he continues, and harrumphs, “not their-” another sigh, “- _genitalia_.”

 

There is a moment of silence, stretching out like warm taffy. John thinks (prays) that the conversation is over, and he makes to stand. 

 

“Are you certain of that?”

 

Sherlock’s voice is unaffected but oddly quiet, and John looks down at him with a confused furrow in his brow. “That people aren’t just their bits?” he asks, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure-”

 

“No,” Sherlock interrupts, staring sightlessly into the middle distance, “before that. That you would attempt a romantic relationship with a man you were-” he glances up at John, and his eyes are provocative, daring John to respond, “-‘gone on’… Is that true?”

 

John’s lips purse of their own volition, and he shrugs stiffly. “Yeah,” he says, voice a bit gravelly. He clears his throat. “‘Course.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes dart over John’s face before they settle again on John’s own. He stares for a long moment - long enough for the blood in John’s face to rise a centigrade - then nods once and lays himself back on the sofa, settling the bag of peas on his forehead and closing his eyes. 

 

John knows better than to miss his exit.

 

—

 

It’s six days later, Thursday - cold as all get out, flu spreading like plague, and John would be absolutely monstrous if not for the fact he finally set up a date next week with the clinic’s new (and inexplicably gorgeous) nurse, Samantha - that Sherlock, apropos of nothing, says “Define ‘gone on’.”

 

He’s lying supine on the sofa, fingers steepled beneath his chin, and John has barely gotten out of his coat. Hanging the sodden thing on the hook, John turns to Sherlock with a frown. “What?” he asks, and steps toward the kitchen. When Sherlock makes no response, John turns around only to find the detective’s eyes staring straight above him at the mould stain on the ceiling that looks vaguely like Australia. Sherlock only avoids John’s eyes when discussing a - for lack of a better word - _human_ topic. John supposes that being gone on someone might be a bit too flesh-and-blood for Sherlock to readily understand, certainly, but where did the question even come fr-

 

_Oh._

 

“Oh.” John is struck still for a second, partially by the question itself and partially by the fact that Sherlock has waited nearly a week to ask it. “I… I dunno, Sherlock,” he huffs out, turning back toward the kitchen. He strides to the counter, flicks on the kettle, and turns back toward the living room, leaning against the dining table. “It’s just a feeling, I guess.”

 

Sherlock blinks several times in his odd _does not compute_ way. “A _feeling_ ,” he murmurs, the word sounding strange on his voice. “Emotional or physical?”

 

_Oh, Christ_. “I…” John trails off and scrubs a hand over his face. “I guess a bit of both,” he says, and crosses his arms primly over his chest.

 

Sherlock nods slowly, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “Describe the physical sensations.”

 

John grimaces, “Ugh, don’t-don’t _say_ it like that.”

 

Sherlock’s face scrunches up, and he finally cranes his head to look at John. “Like what?”

 

“With… those words.”

 

If possible, the detective’s face becomes even more perplexed. “Which words? ‘Physical’? ‘Sensations’?”

 

John rolls his eyes. “Ugh, yes, those.”

 

“Well,” Sherlock says with an irritated sigh, “if you don’t answer, I’ll be forced to repeat myself, which it seems neither of us would enjoy, so-”

 

“Okay,” John interrupts, and holds up a hand, “alright. Jesus. Er…” Christ, how does one explain love to Sherlock Bloody Holmes? “I dunno, it’s like a-” John swallows compulsively and shakes his head, “-a pull in your gut when you think about them. Or a- a weird fluttery feeling when you see them. You can’t stop smiling when you’re with them.” He thinks of the deep laugh Samantha makes when John has said something (only slightly) funny, the way her cheeks go all rosy and perfect. “Sometimes you feel sort of… warm.”

 

“Warm?” Sherlock asks, voice soft and mildly bemused but with a shade of something… wistful?

 

John looks up at him then, struck by the odd tone. “Yeah.”

 

“Feverish?”

 

John snorts. “No. Not _ill_ , just sort of… warmed up, I s’pose.”

 

“When in the presence of this individual?” Sherlock clarifies, his eyes still on the mouldy Australia, but with an unseeing glassiness shining through.

 

John frowns. “Yes, but… all the time, too. Being gone on someone, being-” he swallows again, sod this weather drying out his mouth, “- in _love_ with someone, it… it makes you warm. Contented.”

 

Sherlock’s face - perplexed and distant - suddenly goes blank. “Contented,” he says, and John wonders if he’s ever heard Sherlock repeat so many words in one sitting.

 

“Mm, yeah.” The kettle clicks - he’d not even noticed it boiling - and he turns to the cupboard, pulling out his RAMC mug and Sherlock’s plain black one. He drops a bag of earl grey into his own and some mint monstrosity into Sherlock’s (he tips in a few spoonfuls of sugar to prevent Sherlock from becoming hypoglycemic, but, really, keeping Sherlock healthy is a bit of a nonstarter), then turns back to the living room, mug in each hand, and frowns.

 

Sherlock is sat (laid) exactly as he was a moment ago, eyes still glued to the mould stain, hands still steepled under his chin, and yet he looks… different. “What?” John says.

 

Sherlock is silent for a moment, and John wonders if perhaps he has slipped into his Mind Palace. John huffs - he hates when Sherlock does that in the middle of a conversation. The last time it’d happened, they’d been discussing treatment options for Molly’s grandmother, who’d slowly been succumbing to Alzheim- 

 

“Contentment.”

 

John starts, and a bit of earl grey sloshes out onto his hand. He winces and steps forward to set the mugs on the coffee table, patting his wet hand onto his trousers. Nudging his armchair to face Sherlock, he nods absently and says, “Contentment, yeah. What about it?” He stifles a groan as his body sinks into the chair - god, but he’s getting old.

 

Sherlock sniffs. “It’s a state of being which I am incapable of achieving.”

 

Hand outstretched to retrieve his tea, John freezes, a frown etching itself into his brow. “What?” he says, with an incredulous sound. “’Course you’re capable. What, is that the whole ‘high-functioning sociopath’ thing? ‘Cos, Sherlock, that’s a load of bol-”

 

“It’s the ‘being a drug addict’ thing.”

 

… _Oh_.

 

John stills with his mug a bare inch or so from his mouth, then sighs and sets it back down on the coffee table.

 

They never discuss the drugs. Actually, rephrase: they _never_ discuss the drugs. Sherlock is notoriously closed-mouthed about the subject, and John, for his part, decided long ago that he’d only ever mention it if Sherlock’s sobriety became an issue again. He’s never had any cause to believe Sherlock was high - _insane? yes; high? no_ \- and so the topic has never been breached.

 

Until now.

 

… John can’t help but wonder if that feeling - the inability to be content - is common to all addicts. Harry certainly never seems to manage it-

 

“And also a bit of the sociopathy, I suppose,” Sherlock says, and John looks up, snapping to attention as Sherlock swings his ridiculous legs over the side of the sofa and sits up. “Sometimes the two are-” Sherlock purses his lips for a moment, then looks absently toward the window, “-difficult to differentiate,” he finishes, and his voice is bland in the way that usually means he’s horribly discomfited by the subject matter.

 

John supposes that makes sense; Sherlock _did_ just admit to being unsure of something - something about _himself_ , no less.

 

Fortunately, John isn’t the least bit uncertain. Oddly enough, he’s never been uncertain - not about Sherlock. “You’re not a sociopath, Sherlock,” he says lowly, and leans forward to grasp his mug. “You can feel things,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on Sherlock over the rim of the cup, “I know you can.” He takes a short sip and sits back, settling his tea on his knee.

 

Sherlock’s eyes cut to him and narrow to slits. The slight crow’s feet around his eyes deepen, and he cocks his head to the side. “ _Can_ ,” he repeats, and John reads the question in his inflection.

 

“Yes,” John answers and harrumphs softly, glancing down at his tea. “You _can_.”

 

Sherlock is silent for a moment, and John looks up. The detective looks pensive and, though John would never say it aloud, confused. “You are suggesting then that I _choose_ not to feel human emotion?” Sherlock asks, more to himself than John.

 

John shakes his head once and responds anyway. “I’m suggesting that there’s a reason you are the way you are.”

 

Sherlock’s expression clears at that, and his eyes make an aborted motion that John recognises as a narrowly suppressed roll. “Ah,” he says snidely, and settles himself back against the sofa. “And I suppose you’re going to enlighten me as to what that reason is,” he mutters, waving a flippant hand.

 

John shrugs and jerks his head to the side. “Haven’t the foggiest.”

 

Sherlock quirks a brow. “Really? No baseless, unremarkable theories?”

 

John grits his teeth in a smile and hunches forward, setting his tea on the coffee table between them. “You’re the one with the theories. I’m just the chump with the gun.”

 

Sherlock holds his gaze for a long moment, and John raises his eyebrows. Finally, the detective pulls his feet up onto the sofa, his knees pressing up under his chin. His stare turns back to the window, the view obscured by torrential downpour. “I am not a sociopath in the same way that you are not a surgeon,” Sherlock intones.

 

John stares blankly for all of five seconds, then clears his throat, lips pursing. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Sherlock continues to stare out the window, and the silence stretches. If John didn’t know Sherlock as well as he does, he’d think the detective hadn’t heard the question (or was deliberately ignoring him), but, as it stands, he knows very well that Sherlock quite enjoys testing the tensile strength of objects - namely awkward pauses and John’s patience. 

 

After an interminable period, Sherlock murmurs, “It means there’s a reason we are the way we are.” Of a sudden, his head snaps towards John, and he stands up in a flutter of blue silk. “Get dressed. We’re needed at Scotland Yard.”

 

—

 

“The sewers, though? Like the _actual_ sewers?”

 

Sherlock throws a glare over his shoulder as he stomps into the living room, haphazardly extricating himself from his horridly sodden greatcoat. “Are there virtual sewers I don't know about?” he bites out and whirls around to face John. The movement sends bits of filth flying in every direction, and John groans. “Of course, the _actual_ sewers,” he continues, tilting his head awkwardly to examine (the ruin of) his belstaff. “It was rather ingenious on their part,” Sherlock mutters absently to himself, “setting up their operation down there.”

 

John huffs out a humourless laugh. “Well, yeah, s'not like the mole people've got customs authority, but-” he gestures to Sherlock’s lower body, nearly entirely obscured by muck, “ _still_ though-”

 

“What on earth are ‘mole people’?” Sherlock asks, peering up at John with his face scrunched up.

 

“Wha-” John stares at him blankly for a moment, then shakes his head. He really shouldn’t still be surprised by Sherlock’s knowledge gaps. Christ, the twat didn’t even know the sun was a star. “It's people who live underground like moles,” John says, then throws his hands up at Sherlock’s continued bemusement. _Fuck it._ “Look, did you really need to _dive_ headfirst-”

 

Sherlock raises a brow, still holding the belstaff in one hand, heedless of its horrid dripping all over the floor. “One could hardly dive _feet_ first-”

 

“-into sewage, though? I mean, a bit of muck about your trouser cuffs'd be fine,” John gives him a long (disgusted) once-over, “but you’re _covered_ in-”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes hard enough to make him look entirely ridiculous, then shoulders out of his dress shirt - only slightly less horrifying than the coat - and chucks both onto the sofa. John winces, there goes another quarter of the deposit. “If I didn't retrieve the necklace, we wouldn't have been paid,” Sherlock grits out, and John can only stare incredulously at him.

 

“Oh, right,” John scoffs, “like you do this for the money.” 

 

“No,” the twat says condescendingly, “but _you_ do.”

 

John freezes, his arms akimbo and face contorted. _What?_ “Wh- Are you serious?” he demands, brows drawn together and mouth agape.

 

Sherlock gives him his _obviously_ brow-arch and says, “Of course. Certainly, in the beginning, it was a way to provide your adrenaline fix and waylay your PTSD and psychosomatic limp, but that was over year ago.” He turns his back to John, squatting before the sofa to closer examine his ruinous coat. “In the past half year,” he continues, voice distant and muffled, “you only demand I take a case near the end of the month when your pocketbook gets a bit thin, so-”

 

John has heard enough. “I demand you take a case when the tedium of being a bloody _civilian_ nearly does my head in, I-” he cuts himself off abruptly as Sherlock cranes his head to look askance over his shoulder. Recalling that Mrs. Hudson is home, John lowers his voice with a sigh. “I do this for exactly the same reason you do,” he murmurs.

 

Sherlock is still crouched and staring at John over his shoulder, face just this side of bewildered. He blinks once, twice, and his head tilts jerkily. “Because you need a distraction to stave off a cocaine addiction?”

 

_Christ._ John’s eyes flutter closed, and he sighs again. “Because I need a distraction.” 

 

When Sherlock is silent for another moment, John opens his eyes. The detective is still staring at him, only his expression is… perplexed? No, contemplative. “The cases or me?” he intones.

 

John frowns and shakes his head. “What?”

 

“Your distraction,” Sherlock says, and the usual annoyance that comes with repeating himself is oddly absent. “Is it the cases or me?”

 

_Oh._

 

John stares blankly at Sherlock’s back for a moment. It’s a strange question for Sherlock to ask; he so rarely cares about other people’s estimations of him - good or bad. But, now, his tone is curious, and his face is open. 

 

John harrumphs around an odd sort of swelling in his throat. “You _are_ the cases.”

 

Sherlock’s brow quirks, and his gaze shifts slightly to John’s right, though he doesn’t appear to be seeing anything. After a long pause, which John nearly interrupts several times to defensively redact his words (though he has no idea why), Sherlock sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and turns back to his coat on the sofa. “This will have to go to the cleaners.” 

 

John swallows and nods, the strange, heavy atmosphere of a moment ago dissipated. “It’ll have to go to a _hundred_ cleaners.” 

 

He senses Sherlock’s eyes rolling. “Hyperbole is-”

 

“Needlessly inaccurate, yeah,” he interrupts and just barely stifles an eyeroll of his own. “You know,” he continues, approaching Sherlock and his pile of (presumably exorbitantly expensive) soggy rags, “I really don't think it's salvageable, Sherlock.” 

 

The detective hums and grabs the coat, standing up and holding it aloft. “Ye of little faith,” he says, and turns his head to smirk at John over his shoulder.

 

John barks out a dry laugh. “Says the man who thinks he's god.”

 

Sherlock’s brow draws together in that funny way that makes him look like a toddler. “Better me than an elderly bearded man floating amongst the clouds,” he ripostes. 

 

John chortles and shakes his head, turning to make his way to the kitchen. “Are those the only options?”

 

“Angelo’s brother owns a cleaner’s near Regents - he owes me a favour.”

 

_Of course he does._ “Oh? Get him off a murder charge, too?” John calls from the kitchen, pitching his voice to be heard over the faucet as he fills the kettle and ignores what appears to be a spleen laying near the sink drain.

 

“Yes,” comes Sherlock’s absent reply.

 

_Of course you did._ “Christ. And you actually think he’ll be able to get the stench of shite out of fifteen hundred quid worth of designer wool?”

 

“Eighteen hundred-” _twat_ , “-and yes. He’s done it before.”

 

John’s head pops up at that, and he sets the kettle on its base, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock’s back. “You’ve dived into sewers before?”

 

Sherlock hums. “The Thames, actually.”

 

_What._ John turns entirely around and takes two sharp strides towards the living room. “You dove into the Thames,” he repeats, not expecting a reply, and, of course, not getting one. “How are you alive?” he asks and crosses his arms over his chest.

 

Sherlock turns to face him, eyes widening as if he had forgotten John was actually in the room. “Oh,” he says, waving a flippant hand as he sets the coat back down. “It was mid-July, and I was submerged for barely a moment.”

 

John’s pulls a face and shakes his head. “‘It was mid-Ju-’ _Christ,_ July or January, you’d still be hypothermic! Did you say you were under for a full _minute_?”

 

“Forty-five seconds at most.”

 

“What on _earth_ possessed you to-”

 

“Abigail Jane Messer,” Sherlock interrupts, turning himself around in an exasperated flurry. “Seven years old, thrown over the Westminster Bridge by an individual hired by her father because she witnessed him stab her mother - his ex-wife - to death.” He turns back around then, head tilting down to peer again at the belstaff. “It was of tantamount importance that she survive, else the case would have gone unsolved.”

 

John stares at Sherlock’s back for a long moment, struck speechless - as he so often is - by the ridiculous miracle that is his flatmate. Trousers shit-covered nearly all the way to his hips, spots of filth on his arms and vest where it seeped through his shirt, even a bit of muck in his riotous hair - extra fluffy today, likely due to the humidity in the sewers. An absurd, spectacular _genius_ of a man. 

 

John clears his throat. “You dove into the Thames to save a seven-year-old girl?”

 

Sherlock sighs and turns his head slightly, throwing his words over a broad (slightly shit-sodden) shoulder. “I dove into the Thames to solve a case.”

 

John huffs out a short breath, unsure whether to laugh or sigh. He had realised quite early on what it was that set himself apart from the acquaintances of Sherlock’s who despised the man: whether it’s to sate his boredom, waylay his addiction, or appease his so-called sociopathy, John doesn’t care; Sherlock’s still the mad, marvelous man who solved the crime, who dove into the bloody _Thames_ to save a little girl. “Well,” John says and swallows once. “You’re gonna be without your armour til it gets clean.” 

 

Sherlock hums and brings his hands to his hips.

 

John smirks. “However will you dramatically exit a crime scene after insulting everyone present?”

 

Sherlock looks over his shoulder with a smirk of his own. “I have a spare.”

 

John chuckles around a long-suffering sigh. “Of course, you do.”

 

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all,
> 
> Sorry it's been a while since my last fic. Had the opposite of writer's block, where I had too many ideas and no idea which ones to actually pursue. But, alas, here it is!
> 
> As per usual, this is neither beta'd nor britpicked, so please alert and forgive me of my mistakes.
> 
> I'll try for weekly updates, but I'm going through a move at the moment, so it's possible the chapters will come a bit slower than that, sorry.
> 
> As always, comments and concrit are welcomed and greatly appreciated!
> 
> Love,
> 
> Local xoxo
> 
> P.S. - I'm slightly addicted to Ani diFranco, so, presuming you stick with this fic (which I hope you do!), you'll be reading a lot of her (absolutely genius) lyrics. I'd very much recommend looking up the audio to the songs that appear in the fic - or any (or ALL) of her songs. She is a true champion of both poetry and folk guitar.


	2. Watch the Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Coat, lipstick, and now you’re having a swoon,” he says, swiping his tongue over his lip and jerking his head to the side. “You wearing knickers under there, as well?”

_Some people wear their smile like a disguise_

_Those people who smile a lot_

_… Watch the eyes_

_I know it because I’m like that a lot_

_You think everything’s okay - and it is_

_… ’Til it’s not_

_\- ‘Outta Me, Onto You’, Ani diFranco_

 

 

Sherlock looks… odd.

 

Well, Sherlock always looks a bit odd. The too-long legs and too-big hands, the snowy whiteness of his complexion offset by the jet black of his mad curly head and thick brows, the slanted, iridescent eyes that seem to bore through anything they fall on, and, of course, the ridiculous cheekbones that would better suit an evil Disney queen than a consulting detective - John doubts he’s ever seen anyone quite as naturally odd in form and face as Sherlock Holmes.

 

But today he looks… odd _er_.

 

They’re down the stairs, out the door - with a wave (from John) and a grunt (from Sherlock) in response to Mrs. Hudson’s scolding over the muck on the sofa - and nearly into the cab Sherlock always seems to summon from thin air before John places it.

 

“Your coat…” he begins, brows drawn together as he climbs in behind the detective, “what’s wrong with your coat?”

 

Sherlock finishes giving the cabbie an address in Frognal then turns to John with an arched brow. “You notice a difference?”

 

John rolls his eyes. “Well, don’t sound so surprised.”

 

“I _am_ surprised,” Sherlock responds absently, glancing intently down at his phone.

 

“Yeah well, you don’t have to _sound_ it,” John gripes. His eyes fall back on the coat, the (excess) oddness still niggling at him. “What’s wrong with it?” he asks, jerking his chin at the belstaff. “It looks… flowy.”

 

“Mm.” Sherlock takes a short inhale, and his phone makes the little click noise of being turned off. “It was originally a Christmas gift for my great aunt Maribeth - purchased at Mycroft’s behest, of course.”

 

John dips his chin. “Of course.”

 

“However, she always had rather-” Sherlock’s face goes dark, his diction going crisp in annoyance, “- _impeccable_ timing and died of a stroke on Christmas eve.” 

 

John gives him an unimpressed glare. “What a horrid woman.”

 

Sherlock misses (or ignores) the sarcasm. “Terribly,” he commiserates. “I had it retailored to suit me, but unfortunately, the waist strap was unable to be lowered. Hence the-” he glances down at the fine wool with a slight frown, “- _flowy-_ ness.”

 

John sits back in his seat. “Huh.” He turns to stare out the window for a moment, attempting to school the amusement from his expression. After a few seconds, he admits failure and smirks broadly at Sherlock’s reflection in the glass. “So you’re wearing a ladies’ coat, then?”

 

Even in the obscure reflection on the window, Sherlock’s glare is obvious. “Shut up.”

 

—

 

Five children with colds exacerbated by their parents previously plying them with antibiotics, three elderly gentlemen with erectile dysfunction (only one of which John could prescribe Sildenafil, as the others both had ventricular outflow obstructions - though you wouldn’t know it by how red in the face they both got upon John’s refusal to dish out the blue pill), and, of course, one semi-severe case of piles. All in all, it was a rather unfortunate - if standard - sort of day, only alleviated by Samantha’s occasional flirty smile or glance up through her thick lashes.

 

God, Saturday couldn’t come fast enough.

 

Stepping into the flat, John shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook next to Sherlock’s. He steps towards the kitchen - he’s positively _dying_ for a cuppa - and looks over his shoulder to give Sherlock the usual once-over to check for any severe injuries he might have sustained in John’s absence. From foot to chin, everything looks normal, but then-

 

John freezes and turns to fully face Sherlock. “I’ve missed something.”

 

Sherlock sits cross-legged on the sofa, eyes shut and fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Almost invariably,” he replies, not deigning to open his eyes.

 

John stares at Sherlock’s face for a full ten seconds, trying valiantly to take stock of his (and perhaps Sherlock’s) sanity. “I take it the ladies’ coat opened up some doors for you, then?”

 

Sherlock makes no response, and John takes a small step forward, his head tilting down and eyes squinting to better view the detective’s face.

 

Or, rather, his lips. His dark pink, nearly mauve, shiny, full lips.

 

Sherlock is wearing lipstick. Or gloss. Or stain, or _something -_ John has no idea, but it’s definitely pink, it’s definitely makeup, and it’s definitely on the (already ridiculous) face of Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

 

“I’ll need you to note the exact time I lose consciousness,” Sherlock intones.

 

John starts a bit when the lips - at which he’d been staring rather intently - shift to form the words. Replaying the sentence in his head, John snorts out a laugh, but finds he hasn’t got quite enough air in his lungs. “Coat, lipstick, and now you’re having a swoon,” he says, swiping his tongue over his lip and jerking his head to the side. “You wearing knickers under there, as well?” He means to say it with an air of levity, but it comes out bone-dry and with a bit of an edge to it.

 

Sherlock, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice. “I’ve laced the balm with an anaesthetic,” he says, eyes opening only to stare blankly into the middle distance, “one with an almost identical rate of topical absorption as the aconitine that was found coating the lipstick of the deceased Janette Davies.” _Poisoned lipstick?_ John thinks, and frowns at his own piqued interest. Sherlock really is rubbing off on him. “If my calculations,” Sherlock continues, “are correct - which they are, of course - then the period of time between when I applied the balm and when I lose consciousness will be almost exactly equal to the period between Ms. Davies’ last make-up reapplication and her death.”

 

John nods, eyes still transfixed by the splash of colour that is Sherlock’s mouth. Were his lips always shaped so improbably? “Okay…” he responds, trying (and failing) to follow the flow of Sherlock’s logic even as it’s derailed by the ridiculous pink lips.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes then finally settles them on John. “A snapchat from yesterday morning shows she had applied the lipstick by seven AM. Her body was found at one AM this morning, with time of death around nine PM yesterday. Since the aconitine would most certainly take less than fourteen hours to kill her, by determining when she touched up her lipstick, we can narrow down the window of time during which her murderer applied the coating.”

 

John nods absently for a moment, eyes still glued to Sherlock’s mouth. A soft harrumph from Sherlock draws his attention to the man’s eyes - narrowed and sharp - and John clears his throat, looking away. “Er, yes. Clever.”

 

Sherlock cocks his head. “Yes, I rather thought so.”

 

John swallows against the dryness in his throat and licks his lip. “When did you put it on?”

 

Sherlock stares blankly at him for a moment, then his eyes flutter shut. “Two hours, thirty-six minutes ago.”

 

John glances at his watch and rolls his eyes. “So exactly four o’clock, then?” 

 

“Mm.”

 

John nods and makes his way toward the kitchen, his head shaking of its own accord. “Mrs. Hudson come up since then?” he calls to Sherlock.

 

“Yes. She brought scones.”

 

He grabs the kettle and glances over at the platter of rather marvelous looking scones on the table. “Yeah?” he asks with a tight smile as he fills the kettle. “What’d she say?”

 

“They’re maple pecan and a bit soft.”

 

John frowns then rolls his eyes, setting the kettle on the base and flicking the switch. He turns around, leaning his hip against the counter, and levels a look at the detective. “About the lipstick, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes snap open and dart over to where John stands in the kitchen. “Oh,” he says, then shrugs nonchalantly. “She said it suits my colouring.”

 

“Ah,” John says and fetches two mugs from the cupboard before recalling that Sherlock is currently trying to poison himself and putting one back. “Nice of her,” he mutters to himself and drops a bag of earl grey into the cup.

 

Sherlock hums and lets his eyes fall shut again, bringing his hands down to his knees as if meditating. “The girl at the boutique said something similar, hence the purchase of this particular shade.”

 

John lets out a dry huff of laughter and turns off the kettle. He pours the water, watching as the teabag floats, then sinks, and hopes to God that Sherlock hasn’t run any horrible experiments in this particular mug. “Surprised she didn’t try to sell you some liner and rouge to go with it,” he says gamely as he strides back into the living room, settling himself in the armchair across from the detective.

 

Sherlock cocks his head, eyes still closed, and reaches one hand down to the floor at his side. He brings up a small paper bag with some sort of flowery insignia across the front and upends it over the table.

 

John sucks in a breath.

 

Scattered across the (already rather cluttered) coffee table are seven, eight - no, _nine_ small makeup items. Three of them are round little tubes (one of which has a positively obscene price label on it), two shallow boxes about the size of an oyster card, two flat disc-looking ones, one short brush with a large, fluffy head, and a skinny, black biro-looking thing. 

 

John shakes his head. _Christ._ “What on earth is all this for?”

 

Sherlock huffs out a breath and lets his head fall back against the sofa. “Poisoning through make-up is a rather clever concept. I intend to perform some experiments to determine the best method,” he says, his eyebrows drawing together. “I believe the eyeliner will yield positive results. Perhaps the mascara, as well.”

 

John purses his lips and nods slowly, leaning forward to set his tea on the coffee table. The mug nudges the pen-looking one, which rolls over to reveal a stripe of text, _Blackest Kohl._ “Ah. So you’re saying I’m likely to come home to find you in full drag sometime this week?” He cocks a brow at the detective - needlessly, as the man’s eyes are still closed.

 

Sherlock lets out a long-suffering sigh (John’s teeth set on edge - as if _Sherlock_ is the one who suffers in their relationship) and addresses the wall above. “No,” he begins, voice tinged with condescension. “The term ‘drag’ is derived from an early English theatre abbreviation, ‘Dr. A. G.’, short for ‘dressed as girl’. As I have little interest in transvestist culture outside of solving this case, I will only be wearing feminine beauty products, not clothing.”

 

John tilts his head back in a nod. “Ah. So you’ll just be a bloke in make-up, then.” He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and cocks his head to the side. “Not sure that’s better.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes finally flick open, the pupils contracting to points as he pins John with a stare. He angles his head slightly to the side, one eyebrow popping up. “Would you prefer I wore clothing to suit?”

 

_What._ “What? No, I just- …” God, why does every conversation with Sherlock feel like falling down the rabbit hole? John huffs out a breath and shakes his head, eyes falling to the small pile of makeup products strewn across the table. “Just- do what you like, Sherlock.”

 

He can still feel Sherlock staring at him with that curious/contemplative/really-bloody-irritating look that generally means he intends to do or say something Not Good. “And should I like to wear ladies’ garments?” _Case in point_. “Would thaaa- would that bother yyyou?”

 

John looks up from the table then, eyes scanning Sherlock’s face. The man’s cheeks have gone a little sallow, his pupils wide and eyes glassy, and John only just resists the temptation to smirk. “Looks like you’re getting a bit woozy there,” he says, standing up (rather gracelessly, damn this dry cold making his leg sore as all get out) and approaching the sofa. “Come on, lie down.”

 

John sets a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and glares when Sherlock shrugs away. “M’fine,” the detective slurs.

 

John rolls his eyes. “Lie back, prat,” he commands, hands again coming to rest on Sherlock shoulders and steadily pushing him back.

 

“Would’t both’r you?”

 

John leans down to lift Sherlock’s legs onto the sofa and snorts. “Ladies’ clothes? Well, you’ve already got the coat.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head - quite vigorously for someone likely about to lose consciousness. “Doesn’ coun’.”

 

_Christ_ , his bloody legs are heavy. All thirty feet of them. “‘Course it wouldn’t _bother_ me, you tit,” John murmurs and pulls the quilt from the back of the sofa to settle over Sherlock’s lean form. “It’s fine.”

 

The detective’s eyes fall closed then, and he presses his face into the cushion like a happy cat. “Mmmmsallfnn.”

 

John snorts and grabs the afghan from the foot of the sofa. “Yes, all fine. Even if you wanna dress like a girl.” He winces slightly and shakes his head. “God help us.”

 

“Mmmno,” Sherlock slurs as John drapes the blanket over his torso. “Don’ wanbe girl.”

 

_Thank Christ._ “That’s also fi-”

 

Sherlock grunts. “Wanbe protozz…”

 

John leans back, his brow furrowing as he looks down at Sherlock’s already sleep-slack face. “Whatsit?”

 

“Pro’ozo,” Sherlock murmurs, somehow able to sound condescending even in somniloquy. “Wanbe p-pro’ozone.”

 

John stares blankly at the detective’s face smooshed into the back of the sofa. Prozone? _Oh._ “Protozoan?” he asks and unfurls the afghan to cover Sherlock’s shoulders.

 

Sherlock nods, more like a wobbling of his head. “Mm. Sssingle cell. Just a- a brain, really,” he mutters, and the words are barely audible, spoken into the cushions as they are. “Flo’ing about, flo’ing, flooooad…” His mouth falls open, a bit of moisture already accumulating at the corner, a small wet spot forming where his face is pressed into the fabric of the sofa.

 

“Sherlock?” John asks, just to be sure. When he gets no response but a snuffle and a sniff, he checks watch: _6:42_. Glancing at the coffee table, he spots a small pad with a biro, and reaches for it to scribble down the time. He glances back at his watch, then shrugs, discounting the likelihood that Sherlock needed the time accurate to the second - though one never knows. Setting the notebook back down, he accidentally jostles one of the tubes - lipstick he’d guess, judging by the size and shape - and his eyes dart unbidden to Sherlock’s face, his lips that odd, vibrant colour, smudged slightly, but still shiny and full and… _astonishing_.

 

Christ, but John needs to get out more.

 

—

 

Thirteen minutes. Thirteen _bloody_ minutes the sod’s been in there. John’d told Sherlock two hours ago that he was starved, was going to run to the shop round the corner for a sandwich, but _nooo_ , Sherlock absolutely _needed_ John present for the ‘big reveal’, _required_ John’s hushed utterances of ‘amazing’ and ‘fantastic’, couldn’t _possibly_ spare John for the five minutes it would have taken him to gorge himself on a couple sandwiches. 

 

And now, of course, it’s two hours later, John has surpassed hunger and entered the vicinity of _ravenous_ , and Sherlock’s been doing God knows what in the bloody bathroom for thirt- _four_ teen bloody minutes.

 

John’s stomach makes a horrid gurgle, and he groans. “Jesus Chr- what on earth are you _doing_ in there?” God, does John even want to know what he’s doing in th-

 

“Getting ready,” Sherlock says absently, voice muffled by the bathroom door separating them, “as I believe I’ve told you several times now.”

 

John huffs and settles his forearm over his stomach. He can’t even remember the last time he was this hungry - perhaps Helmand? “Ready for what? It’s just Angelo’s. And you looked fine before.”

 

John hears something clatter into the sink, followed by a muttered curse from Sherlock. “Are you aware,” Sherlock begins, and John can just picture the superciliously arched brow, “that, had you not been constantly interrupting, I would have been finished approximately-” a brief pause, “-four minutes ago?”

 

_Bloody-_ “Jesu- fine. Just- hurry up, will you. I’m about to-” John waves a hand, “keel over, or something.”

 

He hears Sherlock make a soft hmm sound and rolls his eyes. As brilliant - ridiculously brilliant actually, nonpareil and utterly absurd - as Sherlock is, John still finds himself wondering quite often what he’s still doing here. He’s saved up a nice little nest egg, both from his work at the clinic and his work with Sherlock, certainly he could afford to find his own place in London. It might not be somewhere nice and central like Baker Street, but he’s positive he could find something better than the horrid little flat he’d first stayed in upon being invalided - that bedsit would make _anyone_ suicidal, let alone an injured, PTSD-afflicted war vet.

 

… But then, of course, it wasn’t the _flat_ at Baker Street that had saved him, was it? 

 

“Walk or cab?”

 

John starts, not having heard the bathroom door open behind him. He turns around in a flurry, intending to give Sherlock a right dressing-down regarding the rudeness of starving one’s assistant-slash-flatmate, but his train of thought derails spectacularly.

 

_Mother of God._

 

“… I- wh-…” John sputters, and his jaw drops, then clicks shut. Then drops again. Then clicks shut. “What are you doing?”

 

Sherlock tips his head to the side and blinks several times in succession. “Standing. Blinking. Converting oxygen to carbon dioxi-”

 

“What-” _Jesus fucking oh my sweet Christ_ “-are you _wearing_?”

 

Sherlock tips his head back in a nod. “Ah, yes,” he says, and glances down at his… _attire._ “Ladies’ trousers, slim leg - Reilelley by Belstaff,” he says, offhand, and turns his leg out - his long, long, incredibly long, skinny-jean clad leg - and inspects the inseam. “Surprisingly comfortable actually, given the elasticity of the cotton twill. Additionally, I’m quite fond of the tunic,” he murmurs, his chin tipping down and doubling in order to peer at his own torso, clothed in a long, white, and collarless blouse-looking thing with pleats down the front and a high, tapered waist. “It allows for a greatly increased range of movement-” the twat raises his arms in demonstration, and the shirt-dress thing rides up, the loose, flowy fabric fluttering at mid-thigh, “-and is quite a bit warmer than most of my dress shirts, even without the vest. Now,” he continues, wagging a finger and extending a leg to draw John’s attention to the short-heeled shoes, “the boots were a bit difficult to find, as my feet are too long for most ladies’ shoes-”

 

With a heavy, bitter, slightly choked snort, John regains his voice. “That’s because you’re not a lady.”

 

Sherlock freezes, lips parted. His ridiculous cat eyes go wide for a split second then narrow considerably. “You’re angry with me,” he deduces.

 

Eyes still glued to the blouse, the cinched-in waist creating the illusion of curves where John knows there are none, John shakes his head spasmodically. “No,” he says, voice low and rough. He harrumphs and chokes slightly on a too-quick inhale. “No. I just…” the world seems to be vibrating, and John realises his head is still shaking back and forth. He clenches his jaw and stills (steels) himself. “Don’t you think it’s a bit rude?” he accuses, finally looking up into Sherlock’s face. He really shouldn’t be surprised at the pink-stained lips, or the slightly rouged cheeks, or - _oh fuck, oh fucking bloody f_ \- the kohl rimming Sherlock’s eyes, making them appear bright and shiny and _huge._ He’s shaking his head again. “You said you had no interest in transvestist culture and yet here you are-”

 

Sherlock quirks a brow, which John notes is a bit slimmer than usual and has an odd sort of definition in the arch. _Oh my god, he_ waxed _his bloody eyebr-_ “It’s for an experiment.”

 

Another rattling inhale. Christ, why is John choking all the time? Has he forgotten how to breathe? “Yeah, well, I doubt transvestites would be comfortable with you _experimenting_ on th-”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stomps toward the door. He grabs his spare coat from the hook and swings it around his back, slipping his arms - surprisingly svelte-looking, as the blouse is as tight from shoulder to wrist as it is loose from waist to hip - into the ( _ladies_ ’, John’s mind can’t help but remind him) Belstaff. “I doubt anything I experiment on is _comfortable_ with me experimenting on it,” he mutters, adjusting the coat collar and running a hand through his hair - the only part of him that seems unchanged. “I hardly qualify that as a determining factor.”

 

John clenches the musculature of his neck in an attempt not to shake his head. “Sherlock-”

 

Sherlock whirls about of a sudden, towering over John and staring contentiously into his face. “You said it was all fine,” he intones, cocking his head to the side. “Is it not?”

 

_It’s fine, it’s all fine. Course it wouldn’t_ bother _me, you tit_ , _it’s fine. Yes, all fine._ Ugh, John really should have known his lifetime of tolerant forbearance - especially as it pertained to Sherlock - would bite him on the arse one day. “No,” he says around a winded sigh, running his tongue over a chapped lip. “No, it’s- it’s fine.” _All fine_. Another shake of the head, his hair must be completely out of order now. Not that it matters - Sherlock’s done enough grooming for the both of them. He sighs once more and tilts his head up, eyes settling on the door behind Sherlock’s head and to the side. “Angelo’s?” he asks, noting that his appetite had disappeared sometime in the last five minutes.

 

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, ( _made-up_ ) face inscrutable. Then his back straightens, and he takes a step back. “Mm. Walk or cab?”

 

John barely contains an incredulous snort, fearing it might come out closer to a frustrated sob. “Cab. Definitely a cab.”

 

—

 

Apparently, a six-foot tall man in ladies’ garments and makeup nattering on about the efficacy of various topical poisons to his less-than-receptive, short flatmate was _not_ the most unusual thing this cabbie had seen tonight, as he hardly batted an eye when Sherlock slid inside and gave the address. In fact, the only acknowledgement the cabbie gave at all was a sideways smile and an upward nod to John before turning back to the road.

 

It wasn’t a difficult expression to decipher: _Takes all sorts_.

 

John shudders.

 

—

 

When the cab arrives at Angelo’s, John hastily throws a few bills at the driver and slips out of the car. He hears Sherlock follow but doesn’t wait for him to catch up. Instead, he walks straight into the restaurant, where Angelo bellows his name, unheeding of the smattering of other patrons glaring at his back, then darts up to John, giving his arm a firm squeeze.

 

“Ah, Dr. Watson, been a while, hasn’t it?” he rumbles out, grabbing a couple of menus and a wine list.

 

“Yes,” John responds gamely, “yeah, I guess it has-”

 

“And where is our Sherlock? Don’t think I’ve ever seen you come in alo-” Angelo interrupts himself with a gasp, eyes widening as they settle on something over John’s shoulder, and John winces. “Oh, my.”

 

“Our usual table please, Angelo,” comes Sherlock’s baritone, only it’s a bit softer, the consonants dulled, the tone less sharp.

 

Angelo stammers for a minute, seeming to swallow his own tongue several times, before nodding vigorously and showing them to their usual table near the window. John seats himself, carefully ignoring the stares he feels lingering at his back, and grabs a menu to  ~~hide behind~~ read. He keeps his eyes glued studiously to the page as Angelo sidles up to Sherlock, takes his coat, and pulls out his chair, sliding it back in once Sherlock has seated himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Angelo lean in close to Sherlock’s ear and murmur something that sounds vaguely like _truly lovely, my dear_ , and Sherlock hums in response.

 

The vivid description of Angelo’s Famous Pasta Primavera begins to wobble, and John notes that his head is shaking again.

 

He just barely halts the movement when Sherlock’s hand - _bloody hell, did he get a manicure?_ \- grasps the top of his menu and pulls it away. He folds it closed and hands it and his own to Angelo, and orders the penne pasta and a glass of white wine (since when does Sherlock drink _wine?_ ) for himself and the shrimp scampi (precisely what John had intended to order) and a scotch for John. Angelo nods readily and gives them a thousand-watt smile before making a swift volte-face and darting away.

 

Before John can even awkwardly glance over the wine list in an attempt to ignore Sherlock - and the other patrons who seem to have nothing more interesting to do than stare at the man dressed like a lady and his short, be-jumpered friend - Angelo returns, stopping at their table only long enough to set a small candle between the two of them.

 

John’s lips pinch, and, before he can think better of it, he leans forward and blows out the candle. Flecks of wax fly and harden in the air, and a bit dribbles down the side, but John only grasps the candle - heedless of the temperature that burns numb patches into his fingertips - and cranes his torso to the side to set it on a nearby table.

 

Hazarding a quick glance about the room, he notices a few raised eyebrows, a disgusted grimace or two, and, oddly, several sympathetic frowns aimed toward Sherlock. John feels his brow furrow as he turns to look at his flatmate.

 

Sherlock stares blankly at the space where the candle sat a moment ago, eyes darting side to side. He pulls his (maroon) lip into his mouth for a moment, then pops it out. “You’re uncomfortable,” he intones, eyes still fixed on a stray bit of wax on the table between them.

 

John shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he responds and grabs the wine list, eying it carefully, though he has no intention of having a glass. He harrumphs once, twice, and swallows thickly. “You actually going to eat tonight?”

 

“I did order an entree.”

 

John nods. “Right.”

 

A short pause. “Would you prefer I didn’t?”

 

John tilts his head, leaning closer to the list held tightly in his slightly trembling hand. _‘Musky base, with notes of rich oak and a citrusy effervescent finish’, god, who_ writes _this tripe?_ “Don’t much care actually.”

 

Sherlock is silent for a moment, and John can see him blinking compulsively out of his peripheral vision. “I’ve not eaten in a day and a half,” he murmurs at length.

 

John swallows the dry, thick feeling in his throat. “You’ve gone longer without.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, tone edged with condescension. “But usually you pester me to eat after twenty-four hours-”

 

John rolls his eyes and looks up at Sherlock for a brief, tense moment. “Well, you ordered for yourself, so I guess I don’t have to.” He raises his eyebrows at the wide-eyed detective, then shakes his head once and looks back down at the wine list. _A thick, syrupy sweetness with an undertone of bitter tang_ -

 

“You said this wouldn’t bother you.” Sherlocks voice is soft, the words clipped as if he’d said them without moving his mouth.

 

John snorts out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, and you said you wanted to be a bloody _protozoa_ ,” he bites back, glaring up at the detective, “so I s’pose we both lied, yeah?”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrows slightly, and he blinks thrice. “I _do_ want to be a protozoan,” he counters defensively. “Single-celled organism with next to no bodily functions and a nucleus that takes up a fair portion of its mass and energy - it’s a creature that essentially lives only to think, insomuch as it is able.”

 

John looks back down and snorts again. “Sounds brilliant.”

 

A frustrated huff. “Why are you bothered?”

 

John shrugs. “I’m not bothered.”

 

“Of course, you are,” Sherlock ripostes. “Would you like me to elucidate the evidence of your discomfort?”

 

_Christ._ “ _No._ ”

 

“Then answer the question.”

 

_Fuck this_. John throws down the wine list and leans forward in his seat, jaw extended and a tight, angry smile stretching his lips. “Is this about what I said last week?”

 

Sherlock’s face goes suspiciously blank and his eyes dart aimlessly about the table. “You said quite a lot last week,” he says, offhand.

 

John nods. “When I said I wouldn’t marry you if you were a woman.” He licks his lips. Christ, he needs to invest in a chapstick. “That what this is about?”

 

Sherlock’s lips purse, and he unrolls the serviette from around the silverware, settling in on his lap primly as John rolls his eyes. “Why would you think that?”

 

John leans back in his seat with a bitter smirk. “So, it _is_ about that.”

 

“Did I say that?” Sherlock responds with a frown, finally deigning to look up at John.

 

John huffs. “Well, you didn’t deny it-”

 

Sherlock cocks his head to the side. “Why are you uncomfortable?”

 

_Christ_. John guffaws incredulously, then leans forward, voice pitched to a vicious whisper, “You’re dressed like a woman! Do you even realise how offensive this is?”

 

Sherlock raises a brow. “I’m consistently offensive to anyone and everyone, an aspect of my glittering personality that I’m sure you’d noticed before I donned these trousers. Why are you uncomfortable?”

 

John’s mouth works ineffectively for a moment, and he clenches his jaw. “I’m n-”

 

A steaming plate of rather extraordinary-looking shrimp and pasta appears in front of him, accompanied by Angelo’s boisterous tones. “The shrimp scampi for the gentleman, as well as a Macallan - best we’ve got,” he says gaily, with a jaunty wink as he sets down the tumbler next to John’s plate. “And the chardonnay and chicken penne pasta for the lady,” he declares, smile bright and wide as he sets the plate and fine-stemmed wine glass in front of Sherlock.

 

John’s eyes flutter closed.

 

“Thank you, Angelo,” he hears Sherlock murmur, and he feels the air near his face shift as Angelo waves off the comment, vanishing as quickly as he had appeared. 

 

John stares down at his meal, his stomach churning. It’s been a while since Sherlock had made him lose his appetite, and he’d certainly never done it in so spectacular a fashion.

 

John unrolls the serviette and drops it haphazardly onto his lap, grabbing his fork and knife. Ignoring the peripheral image of Sherlock taking a delicate sip of wine, he spears a shrimp with the fork and absently notes the ooze of sauce and marinade down the tines. 

 

Sherlock’s voice is soft and mild as he sets the glass back down. “You’re attracted to me.”

 

John’s eyes squeeze shut, and his cutlery drops to his plate with a resounding clatter. “ _What._ ”

 

“Not in general,” Sherlock amends, voice still calm and steady. “But, right now, at this moment, you are sexually attracted to me.”

 

John, blinking furiously, looks up into the made-up face and barks out an incredulous laugh. “Are you serious?”

 

Sherlock frowns, his forefinger smoothing over the serrated edge of his knife. “Of course. I’m nearly always serious.”

 

_Christ._ “Jesus- _no_ , Sherlock,” he bites out and reclaims his fork. “I am not _attracted_ to you.” A swift shake of the head. “Christ.”

 

“I agree,” Sherlock says gamely, and John glances up in confusion. “Generally speaking, you’re _aren’t_ attracted to me. However-” John sighs defeatedly and runs his tongue over his teeth, “-dressed and done up as I am now, you _are_ ,” Sherlock finishes, tilting his head owlishly to the side.

 

John swallows. “I’m _not._ ”

 

A roll of the eyes. “Of course, you are. It’s obvious.”

 

John feels his hands tighten on his silverware, the handle of the fork digging painfully into his palm as he grinds out, “ _No. I’m. Not_.” He glares balefully up at Sherlock, jaw jutted out and lips taut. “Do you-” he shakes his head and laughs bitterly, “do you _want_ me to be attracted to you?”

 

Sherlock’s frown deepens and his eyes drop to the knife his fingers still toy with. “Did I say that?”

 

John’s eyes narrow and skitter across Sherlock’s face. “Is that what you’re trying to prove with this? That I’m _attrac-_ ”

 

Sherlock’s hand clenches into a fist, and he leans forward, reciprocating John’s glare. “I am trying to prove what I am always trying to prove: that I am _right_.”

 

John snorts, the sound ugly and mean. “Jesus Chr- do you even understand how _ridiculous_ you look right now?”

 

Sherlock’s face goes carefully blank, and his eyes settle over John’s shoulder. “You are the only one who has said as much.”

 

John makes a slight choking sound as another bitter snort gets caught in the back of his throat. “Of course, no one’s _said_ it! It’s the twenty-first century, you can’t just _say_ to a transvestite that he looks ridiculous!”

 

Sherlock quirks a brow. “You seem to be doing just fine.”

 

John tilts his head aggressively. “That’s because I know you’re not a transvestite.” He gestures vaguely to Sherlock’s face and attire. “You’re a _twat_ in eyeliner and a blouse needlessly trying to prove he’s right-”

 

“Needless because I _am_ right-”

 

“Needless because you are _entirely. wrong_ ,” John bites out. He sucks in a short breath and glances about the restaurant, noticing the over-studious way in which the other patrons seem to be attending their meals. His eyes catch on Angelo, rolling silverware near the register at the back of the shop with a confused frown on his face as he eyes the pair of them. John swallows thickly and turns back to Sherlock, lowering his voice to a soft, tense rumble. “I am not _attracted_ to you, Sherlock. I know Angelo and Mrs. Hudson and the Yard and the whole _bloody_ world seem to think otherwise, but I am _not_ attracted to you,” he spears Sherlock with a look, “I _never_ have been, and I _never. will. be._ ”

 

Sherlock’s kohl-rimmed eyes are slightly narrowed, his defined brows drawn together in bemusement. He cocks his head to the side, eyes roving over John’s face. “Really,” he murmurs, and only through months of acquaintance can John tell it’s a question.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” John hisses, raising his eyebrows in contention.

 

The perplexed expression persists for a long moment, during which John’s eyes narrow considerably at the arrogant, gussied-up twat before him. How like Sherlock to assume that John would _want_ him; John wonders if it’s because the man truly finds himself so irresistible, so utterly riveting to the right audience (and John will freely admit he is the _perfect_ audience for Sherlock’s brilliance), or if it’s because the sod is generally so repellent and unlikeable to most people that he can’t tell the difference between tolerance (which John has in spades) and infatuation (which John wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole). Regardless, it’s a deductive error on the scale of which John has never seen the detective make before.

 

Of a sudden, Sherlock’s eyes flutter wildly, as if he were coming out of a trance. His eyes dart about the restaurant, mouth opening and closing in a fashion reminiscent of a startled fish, before snapping shut with a click of his jaw. He blinks repeatedly for another few seconds, shaking his head, and John feels an odd sort of heaviness form in the pit of his stomach. “I…” Sherlock begins, and stammers a bit. John frowns warily. “I apologise,” Sherlock says at length, eyes glued to his untouched pasta and posture oddly slouched.

 

John shakes his head. Stops. Shakes his head again. “What.”

 

Sherlock’s adam’s apple bobs in a swallow, and he stands up abruptly, his chair making a horrid grinding noise as it slides back. “The… the liver in the crisper,” he mutters, grabbing his coat from where Angelo had strewn it over the back of his chair, “it’s likely to go off sometime this week. I-” he pauses, shaking his head spasmodically. “I should conduct the grain alcohol experiment as soon as possible.”

 

_What on earth?_ John shakes his head, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Sherlock,” he sighs out, “you've not eaten in a day and a half,” he gestures to the displaced chair Sherlock had just risen from. “Sit down and-”

 

Sherlock fiddles with his ( _ladies_ ’) trouser pocket until his hand withdraws with his wallet. “As you said,” he interrupts, “I’ve gone longer without.” 

 

John’s eyes fall closed, and he shakes his head again. “Sherlock-”

 

“Angelo!” Sherlock calls out, fishing a few bills out of the bit of leather in his hands. Angelo approaches, casting a worried look at Sherlock and a wary one at John. “Leave the bottle with John, please,” Sherlock says, absently dropping the cash on the table. Angelo nods at him once, but Sherlock is already headed toward the door.

 

“Sherlock!” John calls, but the word only slides off the man’s retreating back.

 

The detective raises an awkward hand in farewell, not turning as he pushes through door and says blankly, “Good evening, John.”

 

—

 

John stares.

 

He stares at the glass-paned door through which Sherlock has just disappeared. He stares at the little flecks of wax adorning the table where the candle sat. He stares at the knife and fork placed perfectly parallel to one another next to an untouched and slightly congealing plate of penne pasta. He stares at the chair across from him, askew and empty, a forgotten serviette crumpled by its leg. He stares at the two hundred quid Sherlock had left on the table for the bottle of Macallan Angelo had just set down. He stares at the lowball glass by his hand, the ice melted and floating on the scotch below. He stares at the fork held clenched in a whitened fist. He stares at the elegant wine glass, its rim stained with a translucent pink from where Sherlock’s coloured lips had touched it.

 

When he finally takes his first bite of scampi, it has long since gone cold.

 

—

 

John walks home, one hand cinching his coat collar against the biting wind, the other grasped tightly around an exorbitant bottle of scotch he has yet to taste. When he steps into the flat, it’s quiet and dark, and Sherlock’s bedroom door is closed. John feels heat in his stomach that crawls up his neck like acid reflux, and he lets out a shaky sigh.

 

He steps toward the kitchen, flicking on the overhead light, and fetches a rocks glass from the cupboard above the sink. It’s a bit of a stretch to reach it, and when he pulls it down, it’s covered in a fine layer of dust. He rinses it off, ignoring what appears to be a bucket of burnt mushrooms in the sink, then pours himself two fingers. 

 

The taste is marvelous, bitter and sharp and smooth, and the spirit pools in his gut with whatever else has taken residence there, warming him up from the middle out. He wonders if he’ll sleep better for it.

 

He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this only took... a million years? Bit of a struggle, this one. Hopefully the last couple chapters will come up a bit quicker. Thanks so much for the comments and support, it really makes my day :).
> 
> FYI, the next chapter is gonna be a bit heavy, as well as the last chapter, but I guarantee you a happy ending :).
> 
> Thanks again,
> 
> Local xoxo


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